They come and go. They come and go.
It's constant, an ever fluctuating blur of faces, the spasmodic torrent of life, highlighting the lack of life. People on their way to a grey-area of grey-life on grey transport, desperately trying to keep up with themselves. Lethargic atheists praying for pseudo-adrenaline, urban spelunking in London's sickly belly. Nearly living.
His coffee stained lips tightened against the warm, damp air that whistled past him. The smell of the earth was masked by concrete and uncertainty. He woke up, finding as he often did, that he hadn't been thinking, like catching himself mid-blackout and snapping back to waking life. He was deliberately slipping out of consciousness; phasing out at work, tuning out the noise of unwanted life, he was desperately not-living in a literal sense, but he wanted to be alive, didn't he?
The cacophony of giant mechanical worms scurrying past woke him again and he mused insincerely over articles in the metro, fading out of life again. This was how he had spent one third of the last five years of his "life".
/One third sleeping.
/One third traveling.
/One third validating his existence on Facebook.
A wave of service announcements washed over his social entropy as he found himself sat, staring at his hastily work-polished shoes, on what muscle memory told him was the Circle Line. Twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds later he would find himself at Edgware Road, twelve minutes and thirty seven seconds of subterranean paralysis.
Seven minutes and twenty-two seconds later he woke up again, coffee stained lips tightened against the white hot noise of inversion that screamed past him. The smell of copper was partially obscured by sulphur and panic. He woke up, finding as he rarely did, that he was losing his grip on the seat in from of him, unintentionally slipping out of consciousness, tuning out the noise of an unwanted hysteria, he was desperately living in an indefinite sense, but he wanted to be alive, didn't he?
The cacophony of giant mechanical worms recoiling in bewilderment woke him again and he grieved sincerely over the last five years of his "life".
A wave of applause washed over his social entropy and he found himself sat, staring at the gilded, scarlet cover of the large tome on his lap.
"This is your life." Announced Michael Aspel, without a hint of irony.
He blinked.
It's constant, an ever fluctuating blur of faces, the spasmodic torrent of life, highlighting the lack of life. People on their way to a grey-area of grey-life on grey transport, desperately trying to keep up with themselves. Lethargic atheists praying for pseudo-adrenaline, urban spelunking in London's sickly belly. Nearly living.
His coffee stained lips tightened against the warm, damp air that whistled past him. The smell of the earth was masked by concrete and uncertainty. He woke up, finding as he often did, that he hadn't been thinking, like catching himself mid-blackout and snapping back to waking life. He was deliberately slipping out of consciousness; phasing out at work, tuning out the noise of unwanted life, he was desperately not-living in a literal sense, but he wanted to be alive, didn't he?
The cacophony of giant mechanical worms scurrying past woke him again and he mused insincerely over articles in the metro, fading out of life again. This was how he had spent one third of the last five years of his "life".
/One third sleeping.
/One third traveling.
/One third validating his existence on Facebook.
A wave of service announcements washed over his social entropy as he found himself sat, staring at his hastily work-polished shoes, on what muscle memory told him was the Circle Line. Twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds later he would find himself at Edgware Road, twelve minutes and thirty seven seconds of subterranean paralysis.
Seven minutes and twenty-two seconds later he woke up again, coffee stained lips tightened against the white hot noise of inversion that screamed past him. The smell of copper was partially obscured by sulphur and panic. He woke up, finding as he rarely did, that he was losing his grip on the seat in from of him, unintentionally slipping out of consciousness, tuning out the noise of an unwanted hysteria, he was desperately living in an indefinite sense, but he wanted to be alive, didn't he?
The cacophony of giant mechanical worms recoiling in bewilderment woke him again and he grieved sincerely over the last five years of his "life".
A wave of applause washed over his social entropy and he found himself sat, staring at the gilded, scarlet cover of the large tome on his lap.
"This is your life." Announced Michael Aspel, without a hint of irony.
He blinked.
